


Clickety-Clackety

by laughingmistress



Category: BBC les mis, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Biting, Blood, Creeping Dread, Horror, Other, ghostly murder, haunted doll - Freeform, horrible off page vengeance, implied toothy violence, non graphic child abuse, some mild cursing, this author ships tholomyes/getting punched, this is all Davies Fault, who are potentially way ooc, wild assumptions about historical figures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-10 07:13:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17421416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughingmistress/pseuds/laughingmistress
Summary: In the rush of leaving the Gorbeau house, Cosette's beloved Catherine is left behind.Catherine has an agenda of her own, and now she isn't comforting Cosette, she has scores to settle.





	1. 1- The Inspector

**Author's Note:**

> Haunted Doll AU. Consider yourself warned.

The Inspector looked around the empty room again. He looked round, and he cursed, and he aimed a kick at the leg of the table. There was a low sound just then, in the silence that echoed behind the hollow thud. A small, scrabbling, rustling sound, from the other room. He turned, ignoring the small throbbing of his big toe.

No doubt it was a rat.

The Gorbeau house was a filthy hole, exactly the sort of place you’d expect a man like Valjean to go to ground, of course it would be full of rats, and mice, and fleas. Probably lice, too—and on having the thought, Javert had to physically restrain himself from scratching his head, clasping his hands behind his back. He really should move on before he ended up with some sort of vermin catching a ride home on his coattails. He slept lightly enough _without_ bedbugs, thank you very much.

He turned back toward the door, but had not taken more than a step before he heart the noise again—a light shuffling, and a sound like a tinkle of porcelain  over floorboards.  And then a clickety-clackety sound. He didn’t know what that sound was, but it was not the sound of a rat gnawing at the baseboards, and it made the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Javert was not a man who spooked at all, let alone easily, and the small internal voice jabbering at him to  _leave immediately_ was unfamiliar, and unwelcome. He was not a child, to flee from a strange sound. Javert was a predator, the top of the chain, and he was not afraid of things that shuffled and clattered in the shadows. They should be afraid of him. He stiffened his spine, and turned back to look again, catching the barest flash of pink in the entry to the second room as he did.

 _My god._ Valjean hadn’t taken the child at all. He did not see how they could possibly have missed her in their searching, hidden in these two small rooms. Perhaps a secret panel in a wall…his men would answer for this later. He was done with wasting time here. The child was of no consequence, and bound for an orphanage, or a workhouse. She could rise and fall by her own stars now, after today she was no longer his concern. He took three swift steps to the second chamber, poised to grab the girl, and preparing himself to deal with the abuses of little feet and fists, teeth, even.

He froze, in the gloom beyond the entry of the second room.

 _That_ was not a girl. 

It was the size of a girl, a child of three perhaps, but slender and dressed in pink satin, with a little bow tied over soft waves of hair. It was smooth, and cold, and white as an old bone, and it had gleaming little eyes. He thought it was a doll. Its rosy cheeks looked painted on, its lips a brushstroke. But could a doll stand on its own like that? Could a doll move? Was a doll supposed to have bright, gleaming pearls of teeth, too large to possibly fit behind the rosebud lips that stretched wide in a sick parody of a smile as he watched? The thing stared at him, and he wasn’t sure why he was still stood there looking at it, and it clashed its teeth together, as if testing to be sure it could. 

_Clickety-Clackety._

It fixed its gleaming little eyes on him and that little voice in his head, the new one that he hadn’t ever heard before stopped chanting  _Danger Danger Danger_ and rose in a shrieking crescendo of  _Run Run Run._ Javert dropped his dignity and raced for the door, as his nose filled with a rank smell of icy mud, and fear sweat, and cheap whore’s perfume.

 

The principal tenant bolted her door, and burrowed under the thin heap of blankets on her narrow bed, and stopped up her ears. The screaming went on for a very long time. The crunching went on longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andrew Davies, this is your fault. This is a ridiculous crackfic that rose out of increasingly ridiculous discussions around episode 3 of the BBC Les Mis miniseries. They gave Cosette a doll that was dressed like Fantine, that was heavily implied to have her ACTUAL HAIR. And then the Beeb went and made this CANON in their twitter promos.
> 
> Then pilferingapples suggested the thing was haunted. and probably also has Fantine's teeth because of course it does. And is some sort of Eldritch Horror.
> 
> I couldn't leave it lie.


	2. The Innkeeper (And His Wife)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new family has moved into the Gorbeau House.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some mild cursing, and manhandling of a small child in this chapter.

 

The Innkeeper was nowhere to be found when his wife returned with the bread. The squalid little flat they’d moved into just a week gone was quiet, and in a way she didn’t much like. The Thenardiess was not a quiet woman by nature, and it had always made her uneasy, silence, and that was not a thing that had improved on having children, for the silence was always the surest sign that they were Up To Something. A large part of how much she’d despised that little cowbird in her nest, that _Cosette,_ was the quiet watchful look she always had. That hungry silence.

This silence felt hungry too—a vacuum, a breath held too long. An absence of something.

Right.

Thenardier. Where had he gotten off to, when he’d said he was going to write letters today, all evening? And what about her girls? She looked around for a clue. There was an overturned chair. And a dark stain on the one rag rug. Perhaps he’d spilt the last of the wine and gone out for more. There was a strange smell in the room, a thing that wasn't  wine. She was sure she should know what it was, but couldn't quite set her finger on it. It reminded her of a butcher’s shop.

The door to the little bedchamber was closed, and she had only taken a single step towards opening it, when she heard an odd sound. A small clickety thing, and then a hushed little laugh. _That,_  she did recognize, though it echoed strangely. It seemed to come from inside the cold sooty fireplace. She squinted into the shadows there, spotting a small pair of feet in the ashes, and in two blinks was yanking the little boy out from hiding, fingers digging into a skinny arm.

The little wretch! He was filthy as a Savoyard sweep, and clutching a _doll_ , a great fancy thing, with real hair, and done up in a pink satin dress. It nearly as big as he was, at four years old, and the Thenardiess was _done._

“No! No sir, I will not have it! Bad enough we had to bring you along here, you ungrateful little stain—I ain’t cleaning up the mess of you! And where’d you get that, you thieving little shit? Give it to _me_ —“ She wrenched the doll from his arms, and tossed the thing onto the table with a soft thud, as the child watched with eyes as round as plates. He winced when it hit the table, and she gave the boy a hard shake. “Where’s your father gone? Don’t look stupid, Gavroche, you answer me!”

“Dolly ate ‘im.”

He was a liar, and not even a _good_ one, even the gap between his front teeth made her angry. She scooped him up under one fleshy arm as he wailed and kicked at her, and threw him out into the hallway.  “You get your little arse out and you find your Papa, and don’t dare come back here without him, or _you'll_ be what gets eaten tonight!” And she cuffed him one, to be sure he knew she meant business. “Without sauce!”

She hesitated for all of one second, looking at his snivelling, sooty, snotty little face. “Nevermind that. Don’t come back at all!” And she slammed the door.

There. Done with that. She took a second to think what she had been doing, and the silence rushed back into the room. Ah yes. She was going to see what her girls were up to in that closed bedroom. At least now she could hear them in there, it sounded like they were having a hushed tea party.  

When she pulled the knob, the door wouldn’t open.

She pulled harder—nothing. She opened her mouth to shout _what have I said about locked doors you two open up before I break it down_ but there was a sharp little sound behind her, a click-clack thing, and it made her jump, in that empty quiet room. She looked round.

Huh.

She’d have sworn that thing had been face down before, not face up. Then, as she watched, it _moved._

All on its own, the doll was moving and she was held in place like a beetle stuck through with a pin as it sat up in little jerking movements and then it _looked at her._

It looked at her with gleaming little eyes, dark as jet and full of hate and she thought suddenly that little Gavroche was not such a liar after all and there was a very good reason for that buctcher shop smell and that stain on her rug. The thing was standing now on its tiny china feet, and it was grinning with its little painted-on mouth, wide, too wide, with a mouth full of the most beautiful gleaming teeth.  She thought of a knife she’d seen once, with pearls inset in the handle. Why was she thinking of that just now, Christ, why was she still only _watching_ as it came toward her, as its strong teeth were clickety-clacking together—she wheeled and began hammering on the door, _Let me in Let me in Ponine Zelma Please Ahhhh,_ clawing at the wood, splinters under her nails as cold teeth fixed themselves in the back of her neck—

 

The little girls played the day away.

It was rare treat, not to hear a peep from either of their parents. When they came out for dinner neither was there, but they’d left behind a gift. 

It was the most wonderful doll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never thought I would be grateful to Davies for anything, but he's truly cured my writer's block! So there...a silver lining for me.  
> I had a dreadful time with the end of this chapter. Also I know exactly what I have planned now and i think five instalments will be the sum total for this cracky little nightmare.
> 
> Cowbirds-lay their eggs in the nests of other birds, for them to take care of. But the babies are huge and often out compete smaller birds for food. Nature is a trip.


	3. Interlude: Good Mother

The children were hers now.

  
Under her protection.

  
They were clever things, and the two girls took good care of the little boy when he finally returned. They didn’t seem to miss Those Awful People, not very much, and not for long either, and really, they could very nearly take care of themselves. 

She had found coins for them from out of pockets, and from the backs of drawers and from between the very floorboards of the Gorbeau House. The biggest girl, the one called Eponine, always found the coins just where they were left out for her on the wooden table. She would take them and fetch back little meals for the three of them, her, and Azelma, and little Gavroche, and they were all quite happy, and ate better than they had in some time.

  
But. The few coins were not enough. Not nearly enough to last, to feed and clothe and pay the rent for the three children until they might be able to provide for themselves. There would have to be more coins.

  
She had needed coins before.

  
She knew better now how to get them than she once had. She knew the name of a wealthy man somewhere in this city. She would find him. He owed her a very great deal indeed, and if he had not paid for the first child, well then, he would pay for these.

  
Catherine had not left the house alone before, but she was a good Mother.

  
Mother would provide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really felt the need for a bridge here. I think you can guess who's up next.


	4. The Lawyer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was something almost familiar about that doll, although he couldn’t put his finger on what.

The lawyer wondered if someone was trying to play some sort of a joke on him.

He had always been fond of little jokes, himself, and had certainly pulled a few in his day. There was one in particular that he always remembered as being exceptionally clever, although he was still just a bit sorry he couldn’t have been there at the end, to watch them open the letter, to see how it had been received. Their faces! It must have been beautiful. But he was woolgathering, and he shook his head and refocused.

There was a doll sat in the middle of his bed.

It most certainly had not been there when he’d left for the office that morning. Why would it be, when he lived alone, the perennial bachelor, and no child or wife cluttering up the place with such things? He looked around, but there was no sign of anything else out of the ordinary—his clothes tucked into the wardrobe, the stack of letters on his desk, and yes, the drawer where he kept all his valuables still closed up tight. He shifted his shoulders, which were a little stiff, and began absently emptying his pockets into a little dish on the desk—a handful of coins, his billfold, his gloves— and removed the hat from his balding head, all while still looking at the doll.

It was the size of a toddler, pink clad, with a china head, and there was something almost familiar about it, although he couldn’t put his finger on what. He hadn’t had anything to do with a doll in his life. Why should he feel as if he ought to know it from somewhere?

The shadows were getting long in the corners. The whole room was dim, he really needed to see to the lamps. But he wanted a closer look at that thing first. It was quite attractive, really. Excellent workmanship. A funny chill of revulsion went down his spine, without any good reason, and he hesitated for a half a second on his way across the room, not really knowing why. He shook himself, and then reached out and picked up the doll. It had the most incredible eyes he had ever seen on such a thing, dark and glittering like jet. It almost seemed to be looking right at him. It even had real hair, and he ran a hand over the silky waves. So soft. For a moment he thought he picked up a hint of some distant and familiar sweet scent, and without even knowing it, he smiled a little.

That was when it bit him.

He let out a shriek. The thing had a mouthful of teeth,  _real_ teeth, sharp, and those teeth were sunk into the flesh of his right index finger, nearly to the bone, and in another moment, they would take it right off. He held on to the thing around its slender middle, tight with his left hand, and pulled with his right, as hard as he could. It was as if he was caught it a steel trap and he didn’t understand--

Suddenly the thing let go, and the sudden lack of the force he’d been pulling against was such that he punched himself squarely in the face. He dropped the doll with a squawk and grabbed his nose, seeing stars and cursing, then he changed his mind and grabbed his mangled hand instead, looking wildly around the room. He tried to quiet his noisy breathing, calm the heartbeat in his ears, stretching for a sound to say where it had gone.

Where was it?

 _What_ was it?

He heard a soft skittering, and a clickety sound behind him, and whirled about. As he turned, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His nose was bleeding. He couldn’t see the thing…maybe there, a movement in the shadow?

_Clickety-clackety._

A pearlescent flash in the darkness. Above it, a dark malevolent glittering of tiny eyes. It was between him and the door, and he thought wildly about diving out the window. Was he laughing? He had the awful feeling he would not make it across the room. There was a tinkle of china.

It was coming.

He kicked at it, and scrambled backwards away from those clattering teeth, and nearly fell when he ran into the frame of the bed, and still it was coming, that nightmare thing, and he was pleading with it, as if whatever it was might care a bit about a word that he said, when he was known for his clever jokes and pretty lies. That implacable thing was on him now,  had tumbled him back onto the bed, and it was working with those teeth and he was weeping, and begging, and crying out a name he hadn’t thought of in years, as if invoking a beautiful grisette might save him, and the clickety-clacking became a steady C _runch Crunch Crunch_ and his voice gibbered up and up, higher, he was screaming and screaming and screaming.

 

Once, Félix Tholomyes had been a man with An Appetite. Now, he would satisfy hers.

 

The screaming stopped.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got serious. And I am Freaked Out.
> 
> But, if ever anyone in Canon deserved a truly horrible end, it was this creep.


	5. The National Guard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They recognized the voice of Jean Prouvaire, and braced for the report.
> 
> That was when the screaming began.

The National Guard had withdrawn, slightly. It seemed that they respected a barrel of gunpowder, if not the people’s will. At first all was calm, until Courfeyrac called the roll, and Jean Prouvaire did not answer. They went from one end of the barricade to the other, checking every crevice, as the sun sank and the shadows lengthened, and found no sign. The National Guard had taken the poet.

There was a bit of discussion among the young men, then. They could not leave Jehan with the guard, and yet, they had no one to trade for him. They had not taken any prisoners. Bahorel was all for rushing over the top, a surprise attack, but was finally convinced that the idea was suicide, and the entire barricade would be lost, a thing for which Jehan would not thank them. Enjolras said he would offer himself in trade, and that too was vetoed—it would be wrong no matter who they lost. A dark silence fell. There was nothing they could do.

There came a loud chorus of ominous clicks from the far end of the street—a dozen guns, cocked in unison. Joly made a small pained sound, and Bossuet put an arm over his shoulders.

A voice rang out, “Long live France! Long Live the Future!”

They recognized the voice of Jean Prouvaire, and braced for the report. The entire air seemed to take on a dank chill, in spite of the June heat.

That was when the screaming began.

Everyone looked at everyone else, but it was Gavroche who bolted to the barricade first, scrambling up chairs, tables, and kegs as quick as a squirrel. Everyone else was fast at his heels, but there was nothing to be seen from the top of the barricade—the far side  was dark as midnight, as though an eclipse had fallen in the narrow street. Still, the screams and shrieks echoed in the lane, terrible to hear, lifting the fine hairs of their arms and the backs of their necks, a ripple of raising gooseflesh. There were other sounds too: a great noise of running feet, retreating with all the speed they could muster, and the cries of men stumbling, and falling, and clambering over one another in their haste. A hushed muttering ran among the young men. They’d been less scared of the guns and bayonets than they were of whatever had set a terror running through their opponents, unseen and unknown, and just beyond their suddenly fragile seeming barricade.

“Marius!” Combeferre called out, and he sounded younger than he ever had. “Marius, where’s that torch? Bring it, quickly!” There was no doubt that some terrible thing was happening, out there in the dark of the Rue de la Chaneverie, just beyond their view.

Marius was still fumbling to relight the torch with shaking hands when Grantaire appeared from out of the Corinthe, bearing a lamp. The strange sudden quiet, followed as it was by that dreadful screaming, had seemingly awakened him. He looked truly alarmed, although visibly relieved at seeing them. As the shrieking in the dark ratcheted up to a new and horrible pitch, he hastened over with the lamp, and handed it up to Enjolras. Just as their fingers touched, silence fell again, a thick blanket of hush. It was instantaneous, and as still and profound as a crypt. For a moment, they all held their breath as one, waiting for whatever was to follow.

When the voice came, it was thinner than before, and it shook.

“Hello? Hello? Please, is anyone there? For the love of God—“

Feuilly was the first to let out a joyful whoop, breaking the pall over them all, vaulting over the top of the barricade, and racing toward Jehan. Already the shadows were fading back into something more like a natural twilight, and the rest quickly followed.

The street was nearly empty, aside from the few bodies of men who looked to have been trampled in the mad rush as the others had fled. Jehan was stood against a wall, hands bound, blindfolded, and otherwise untouched, the epicenter of an area of unexplainable carnage—cobbles splashed with blood, and the ragged bits and pieces of what might once have been a firing squad. Maybe. No part was bigger than hand sized. The only identifiable thing was, in fact, the hands.

No one looked at any of this too closely.

No one wanted to.

Feuilly untied the poet, and it was Bahorel who loosened the blindfold, gentle, for all his size.  They were not entirely sure what they ought to do, now that there was no guard to stand against, so they returned to the Corinthe. On the way, Bossuet tripped and fell, over a large doll that was inexplicably sitting in the centre of the deserted road. He laughed, and brought it along, and it was propped up proudly on the bar—without a chip in its china, it too was a survivor of the barricade of the Rue de la Chaneverie.  Gavroche gave it a jaunty wink and a salute as he passed, and if it looked like a doll he recognized, he said nothing about it.

 

Once drinks had been poured, they asked Jehan what had happened. They simply shook their head, turning a bit pale, and said they didn’t know. That he waited for a shot that never came, and a winter chill had gone through the air, chased by an unnatural silence. They had not heard any screaming, no.

But there had been a crunching. As if something with sharp, pearly teeth were gnawing at a bone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a little different, POV wise. I fought with it, trying to figure out how to do it. After the mess that was made of the amis this week (all three of them LOL) I felt the need to be sure they all got out of this in one piece.
> 
> The solution to police brutality is obvious: eat the police.


	6. The Old Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He felt a deeper kinship with Ebenezer Scrooge, suddenly, than he had ever hoped for.
> 
> Catherine has a final visit to make, and brings along a guest.

The old man could not sleep.

He wasn’t sure why. He’d knocked off with the coffee by mid afternoon, and there was nothing to weigh on his mind. Yet he felt strangely uneasy, tucked into his bed, staring up at the ceiling as the minutes ticked past. Perhaps it was like Scrooge and his Ghosts, in Dickens—a bad bit of meat, or mustard? Now he thought of it, Dickens  _ could  _ use an update. That old chestnut. Surely there was a way to make it more…relatable. Sex it up a bit? Ebenezer’s early years—hmm. Yes. That could be the next adaptation. He sat up, to flick on the lamp and reach for the pen that sat on his bedside table, and froze.

The room was dark, but it was nothing to the deep shadow looming at the foot of his bed, and he peered into it, as if he could coalesce a shape in the blackness by staring hard. He was told he had a formidable stare.

The room was quiet. Not a breath of air. The dark seemed to grow thicker.

He hear a small clickety-clacking sound from out of the dark, and that unfroze him—he turned halfway, and hit the switch on the lamp with his thumb.

Nothing happened.

There was a deep rich chuckle from the foot of the bed. The old man turned back to look, slowly, as if he were moving through a thick soup. He had a very bad feeling about this. It was not quite as dark as before, although the air had grown chill. He would swear he saw his breath puff in the air between himself and…

Who was it?

_ What  _ was—Oh. 

He felt a deeper kinship with Ebenezer Scrooge, suddenly, than he had ever hoped for.

It was a ghost. It had to be. It was as if the little bit of moonlight had all gathered in one spot, picking out the figure of a man. Large. He couldn’t tell if he was old or young. The figure had a shifting quality: it was a young man, with a grave face, or an old one, bewhiskered and stern. Perhaps it was both? Either way, he had a hell of a forehead, and he held a large doll tucked into his arm. Finally, the old man managed to say something.

“Who…what..?” Very erudite.

The moonlit man tsked. “You  _ ought _ to know, Andy. You’ve been claiming you understand my words better than I do, after all, surely you might recognize me?” He laughed, an odd hollow clunking thing. “I like this better than seances. It’s fun to just...appear. And I doubt you’d have been one for the the rhyming couplets, really. “ The stranger tsked again, and shook his head, looking very stern indeed. “You’ve done a bad job, Andy.”

The living old man shook his own head, helplessly. “I don’t understand.”

The dead one replied. “It’s Victor, my boy. And you have done me a very great disservice. I gave you a book, a masterwork, about love and redemption. And you turned it to…”The figure seemed to be at a loss. “I know not what to call it.”

The doll make a loud clacking sound. Victor laughed.

“She says you have been naughty. She’s not wrong. You have abused my child. You have turned it to anger, and obsession, and sex—“ He paused. “You know, I don’t even mind sex. The brothels shut down for me, surely you must have read that somewhere.” He looked rather pleased with himself.

The old man realized his mouth was hanging open, and shut it abruptly. It could not be _.  _ “… _ Hugo _ ?”

The ghost laughed. “Ah. You have arrived. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“I…relatable! Gritty…modern and…relatable—“

“You’ve said that already.”

He tried again. “…Obsession…and sex… it’s what the people want!”

Victor Hugo looked sterner than ever. 

“There was obsession already, and you made it farce. And sex—it isn’t about sex. Not this. Not  _ Les Misérables _ . Come on, Andy, my boy. You made a starving child do a peep show. You turned a Good Man into a screaming abuser. You sent My Boys to a  _ whorehouse!  _ You gave  _ Enjolras  _ a  _ moustache!”  _ He paused and drew a breath that was clearly for effect, as he wasn’t alive. “People have done it wrong before, of course. But the rest of them didn’t claim to speak for me. To write what I Should Have. To be The Most Accurate.” The capitals were clearly audible. Mildly, he went on. “I wasn’t going to come to you, you know. But it’s not me you’ve harmed, nor my characters. It’s the other people. You told them that the versions of my story that they already love weren’t good enough _. _ That the characters they see themselves in were weak. Less.  _ Nauseating,  _ I believe you said? Something like that, anyway. You look at a thing that gives people hope…and call it a travesty. “ He sighed. “What do you have against singing, anyway?”

He gave the old man a grave look, and continued.“I hope you will think about this. Deeply. If ever you should chance to adapt another person’s words, that you will treat the story, and the people who already love it, with more respect. “ For a moment he seemed amused. “Dickens isn’t nearly as steady a man as I. It wouldn’t do to upset him. Have you ever heard about his readings of  _ Oliver Twist _ ? Terrifying fellow.”

Victor Hugo leaned over, and set the doll he carried at the foot of the bed. Its eyes gleamed a little in the darkness. “But I must be going. Catherine says she wants to stay to keep an eye on you. To be sure you…behave.”

For some reason he could not bring himself to look away from the doll. He opened his mouth to ask, to demand, that the spectre take it away with him, but Victor Hugo was already gone. He drew a shaking breath, looking at the suddenly empty air. Well. That had…happened. It had. It occurred to him that not only were the living talking about his work, the dead were too, this time. Some men would have realized this was not necessarily a good thing. But he was not  _ some  _ men, and he couldn’t help but be impressed with himself…he had called up the dead with his writing! He laughed. 

_ Clickety. _

What was..?

_ Clackety. _

Jet black eyes glittered at him. There was a pearlescent gleaming of teeth. The doll  _ twitched _ , and he recoiled, hitting a bony elbow against the headboard of the bed. The thing was coming, creeping toward him over the coverlet, and grinding its teeth together as it came.

“Wait—wait—I thought you were only here to watch—“

The little voice was high, and brittle, and cold as china. 

“I’ve already _ watched  _ enough.”

Victor Hugo couldn’t have known about this. Surely he did not. He would come back. He would save him from this thing. “Hugo!  _ Hugo! HUG--!” _

There would not be another Davies adaptation.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel the need to state, for the record, that I do not actually believe that violence is an appropriate reaction to anyone's creative work, no matter what I may think of it. This is meant as entertainment and dark humour in the face of character assassination, and is straight up crackfic o' the crackiest.
> 
> If you love the BBC adaptation, i seriously am glad! There are bits of it i like too! We don't all have the same opinions and thats OK! So please don't drop in to tell me I'm evil, this is just for a laugh, for the people who are...not so pleased.
> 
> Those who've been along for the ride, i hope that you find this ending satisfying, and have had a good time reading. Thanks so much for getting in on the joke, and also, for checking out my other works while you were here! <3


End file.
